Chapter Five
You Stole from Me What You Thought I Took
A Stolen Glance—a Lovesick Look
You Read My Mind Just Like a Book
Someday, I Shall Know...
Christian slammed his fist into the carriage door. “Who in Hell is that?” he wondered aloud, his eyes narrowed on Rosalyn as a young gentleman helped her into the waiting carriage.
The driver leaned down from his perch with a questioning look. “Beg your pardon, Mr. Brown?"
"Nothing. Nothing. I was—ah—talking to myself. Follow that carriage, will you? Stay far enough behind they don't see us."
"Yes sir."
What was she up to? And who was the young man? She assured him there were no caller ... was she a liar as well as a thief? Christian brooded silently as the carriage pulled away from the curb and followed Rosalyn and her gentleman friend. Granted, they hadn't been in the house for long, but Christian wondered what had taken place in those few moments of privacy.
He bit his tongue, telling himself he didn't really care, yet his mind continued to ask questions. Why was she dressed as she was? Miss Mitchell hadn't bothered fancying herself up to dine with him, yet here it was broad daylight and she looked as if she were going to a party.
With another man. After making him believe she was helpless against his charms. He clenched his gloved fist as rage rippled through him. Oh, yes, she'd melted against him as if she didn't have a single will to resist, as if she were an innocent virgin overwhelmed with love's first passion.
What if ... Christian froze. What if Rosalyn knew who he was and played him for a fool by pretending she didn't? Christian felt a hot flush of unaccustomed embarrassment over this possibility. To think—he'd gone so far as to register at the Bolten Hotel under the name of Chris Brown in case she came looking for him.
She could be laughing at him this very moment.
The carriage stopped abruptly. Christian waited impatiently for the driver to step down from the seat. When his grizzled head appeared in the window, he barked, “Well? What's she doing?"
"She and that feller went into that fancy card shop."
"The Valentine Factory?"
"I reckon. Never been in there myself. My wife don't cotton to ‘stravagances like that. Waste of money, she says."
Christian stared at the driver in amazement. With exaggerated patience, he drawled, “Wait for them to come out, then keep following them.” For added incentive, he handed him another bright coin, shaking his head at the driver's small-town antics.
After ten incredibly long minutes, the horse snorted and responded to the driver's gruff order to get moving. Christian breathed an impatient sigh and settled back in the seat. So, they hadn't stayed long in the shop. Where could she be going now? She wasn't delivering valentines today—not dressed like that.
Finally, the carriage rumbled to a stop again. Christian felt the creak of the carriage as the driver jumped down.
"The lady got out here, Mr. Brown. The carriage went on with the gentleman inside."
Christian swallowed a sarcastic retort. “And where's here?"
"The West England Church,” the driver announced cheerfully. “Looks like there's gonna be a wedding, with all them people arriving."
A wedding! Christian felt like a fool. “We'll wait."
"But, Mr. Brown, it's cold as blue—"
"Here. See if this will keep you warm.” Christian fished in his pockets for another coin and handed it to the driver. “Turn the carriage around so that I can see the entrance to the church.” With a twisted smile, he watched as the driver clamped his bluish lips shut and pulled his hat low before he disappeared from the window.
Christian didn't notice the cold. His anger kept him warm—anger directed mostly at himself for allowing Rosalyn Mitchell under his skin. He spent the next thirty minutes thinking of ways to get even, most of them pleasant and extremely beneficial to himself. Rosalyn Mitchell would regret the day she thought to make a fool of him, he vowed.
She blew his vindictive plans all to hell and back when she emerged from the church.
Christian sat up straight, his gaze riveted to the vibrant beauty as she raced down the wide stairs and halted at the curb. The carriage sat directly across from her, but she seemed to pay it no heed. He watched as she looked up and down the road as if searching for someone, her cheeks flushed a deep red, her shawl pulled tight across her high, round breasts.
He swallowed, finding his throat suddenly parched. Her waist looked tiny, and his fingers itched to circle it and pull her against his hard body. Without further planning, he opened the door of the carriage and stepped out.
She saw him. Her eyes rounded, first with pleasure, then with fear. Christian found the second extremely intriguing. Why would she fear him? he wondered. Unless, of course, his suspicions were correct and she had played him for a fool. If that was the case, she was wise to fear him.
After giving the driver instructions to wait, he crossed the road. She didn't back away as he approached, but Christian sensed she wanted to.
Chin up, she greeted him coolly. “Mr. Brown."
Christian smiled, his heart freezing over. Yes, she was afraid. “So—we're back to ‘Mr. Brown’ are we? Does this mean I'm supposed to call you Miss Mitchell?"
She titled her head, her dark brown gaze steady on his face. “I think you should, yes."
"Why don't we discuss this in the carriage? Unless you're expecting someone...?” Christian held his breath.
She glanced down the street, then to the waiting carriage. “How did you know I'd be here?"
Lord, but she was sharp. He thought fast. “Miss Howland told me.” It was a lie, but a good one—he hoped. Chances were, she wouldn't think to ask Miss Howland about it.
"Oh.” She hesitated. “If you're sure you don't mind. I've got an urgent delivery to make, so I've got to go straight to the shop."
She didn't appear overly eager to get into the carriage with him, Christian noted. Ruthlessly, he overlooked this observation and escorted her across the road. He would find out in good time why she was suddenly reluctant to be in his company. To his recollection, she hadn't been adverse to his company in the past.
Settling her onto the seat, Christian unfolded a blanket and placed it across her knees. She still looked nervous, but she managed to give him a grateful smile.
Christian's blood began to pump furiously at the sight of that adorable gap in her teeth. He muffled a curse behind a cough. “So was this one of those anonymous weddings you spoke so highly of?” The carriage rolled forward and he reached out a steadying hand. She edged away from his touch, pressing her hand over the shawl as if to feel her heart beat.
Good, Christian thought. He wanted her off-center. Scared, if need be.
"Yes. Abigail Swertz and George Perry.” Her soft, melodious voice captured his attention. “They said they were going to name their first child after me."
Christian forced a smile. “Let's hope it's a girl, then."
Her laugh sounded nervous. “Yes, let's hope."
Silence followed. Christian stared at her, enjoying the sight of her flushed face and wary eyes. His gaze dropped to her chest where her hand still pressed against the shawl. “Are you cold?” he inquired, wishing she would lose the covering so he could look his fill.
"No—yes, I am."
Well, which was it? And why was she so nervous? Christian frowned, reminding himself of her probable duplicity. Spurred by his black thoughts, he slid his arm along the back of the seat and leaned close. Looking into the alarmed, black depths of her eyes, he whispered huskily, “I missed you."
Rosalyn licked her lips, edging back. “I—Where were you?"
He chuckled at her stunned expression, realizing she hadn't meant to ask. “Why, did you miss me?” Casually, he pressed his leg against hers. Another inch or so and she would have nowhere to go for she was almost upon the opposite door. Reaching out, he grasped her hand and pried it loose f
rom her chest. She let him, her wide-eyed gaze fastened upon his face. Slowly, he feathered his fingers at the edges of her shawl, sweeping the material aside.
Starting at her jaw, he ran his hand along her chin, down her throat and onto her magnificent chest. When his fingers tangled with something cold and round, he froze. He lifted the object and studied it, frowning.
"It's—it's a pearl necklace. Miss—Miss Howland loaned it to me,” she explained.
Borrowed ... or stolen? Christian couldn't help but wonder. He fingered the beads, his gaze narrowing in concentration. They looked real—and valuable. Surely she didn't trade the ruby necklace for these? The possibility roughened his voice. “An expensive item to loan an employee, wouldn't you say?"
Rosalyn stirred restlessly, gently tugging the pearls from his grip as if she feared he would yank them from her neck. “They came over on the May Flower, according to Miss Howland. I'd never forgive myself if I lost them, but she insisted I wear them to the wedding."
Her breathless laugh stirred his senses like no other sound on earth. For a moment, Christian forgot his mission and pulled her against him. He covered her shocked gasp with his mouth and kissed her for a long moment, with an edge of desperation, before setting her from him.
He couldn't let lust get in the way of what he must do. Eyeing the pearl necklace against the slim, graceful column of her throat, Christian came to a decision. His plan might work, and it didn't matter that his heart wasn't in it.
His heart didn't rule his head—never would. He wouldn't allow it.
* * * *
Rosalyn couldn't wait to get out of the carriage and the constricting corset. Staring into Chris's liquid eyes, she couldn't decide which was the most dangerous. “Thank—thank you for the ride. I'll get a hackney from here—"
"I'm in no rush,” Chris drawled pleasantly. “I'll take you to wherever you need to go."
The husky rumbling of his voice slid over her, sucking precious air from her crushed lungs. Rosalyn struggled to control her silly, weak reaction. “I couldn't impose—"
He put his finger to her mouth, shushing her protest. She closed her eyes as he began rubbing the slightly rough digit back and forth across her bottom lip. It took every ounce of will power to resist the urge to lick her lips.
She managed—just.
"I'll wait here while you fetch the whatever-it-is you're fetching."
Rosalyn felt his hand at her knee. Her eyes flew open, her gaze landing on his rakish smile as she waited to see what his next move would be. But all he did was push the rug from her knees, and lean across to unlatch the door for her.
She let her breath out—what there was of it—in a slow, shaky rush and nearly fell from the carriage. Heaven above, what was the matter with her? Without looking back, she stepped onto the boardwalk in front of the shop. She prayed her knees wouldn't fold before she reached her goal.
Alice looked up from her dusting as she entered. Ignoring the shop clerk's alarmed expression, Rosalyn moved away from the door and found an empty space along the wall. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing in and out.
"Good gracious, Rosy, what happened? Are you all right?” Alice rushed to her, fluttering over her like a mother hen.
"I'll be fine ... in a moment,” Rosalyn managed to gasp. “The corset..."
"Oh, gracious, Hillary got it too tight, did she?” Alice clucked her tongue and Rosalyn suppressed a hysterical giggle at the sound. “But you don't look pale ... you look positively red! Flushed, like something's embarrassed you. Are you certain you're all right?"
Rosalyn slowly opened her eyes, focusing on Alice's concerned face. “Yes. I told you, I'll be fine once I get my breath back. Do—do you have the basket ready—the one Mr. Newman picked out?"
Alice looked unconvinced, but she nodded. “Yes, it's ready. I copied the verse onto the insert and placed it inside the card, just as you told me to do. But you know my penmanship isn't as neat as yours. How was the wedding?"
"Fine, it was fine. Beautiful.” Rosalyn pushed herself away from the wall. Yes, she thought, her breathing was better. Getting away from Chris Brown did wonders. Her gaze followed Alice as the young shop clerk went to fetch the basket and card, chattering along the way. Rosalyn prayed she wouldn't look out the window...
"Do you want me to call Jamy so he can hail a cab? Surely you're not walking in this weather. It looks like it's going to snow any moment now."
"No. I've ... got a hackney out front."
Alice beamed. “Good. I know how you like to save money, and frankly, I was worried you'd try to walk in this cold. It isn't good for your lungs."
Didn't she know it. Neither was Chris Brown or this confounded corset. “Do you have the address?” Rosalyn asked as she took the elaborate basket from Alice.
"Here.” Alice pushed a piece of paper into her hand. “I can't believe he paid thirty dollars for this. Why, that's more than I make in a month!"
Rosalyn laughed at Alice's amazed expression. “Well, he did have a little persuasion, you know.” Mr. Newman hadn't blinked on hearing the price, the poor man. Rosalyn swung the basket onto her arm and made for the door—and Chris Brown.
Her feet began to lag. She wouldn't see him after today, she vowed. He was too naughty, and she too weak to resist his naughtiness. No wonder the townspeople frowned when Miss Howland went to New York unattended. If New York was full of persuasive, irresistible men like Chris Brown ... Rosalyn shuddered.
Thank God she lived in good old Worcester, Massachusetts! God must have known what a ninny she was. And if she were lucky, Chris would return to New York before he managed to seduce the gown right off her back. She had hoped—when she saw him emerge from the carriage at the church—that something had changed and she would be strong against his charms.
Ha!
One look, one touch, and she was his to command. What utter foolishness. Well, there was her answer. She'd tried, and failed. Now she must tell him she could not—would not—see him again. And what excuse would she give him? "Chris, I'm afraid I can't see you again. You see, I'm afraid I can't say no to anything you ask of me."
Incensed by her own weakness, Rosalyn jerked the shop door open and tromped to the waiting carriage, basket clenched against her side. Chris unfolded his long, muscled body from the carriage and gave her a hand inside. Before he could settle beside her on the seat, Rosalyn set the large, delicate basket between them. She refused to look at his face, knowing—knowing—he was watching her with outright amusement.
This knowledge strengthened the small thread of resolve left in her. At least she could manage a little shred of decency until she could get away from him, she determined.
The basket helped.
"Address?"
Rosalyn opened her clenched hand and presented him with a crumpled piece of paper. Without meeting his gaze, she turned to look out the opposite window. He opened the door again and gave the driver the address. The carriage jerked forward. Rosalyn folded her hands on her lap, stiff as a washboard.
She had just begun to relax when Chris laid his arm along the back of the seat and tangled his fingers in her hair, stroking the back of her neck with his thumb. Well, he certainly didn't waste time, Rosalyn thought with a shiver. After a moment's contemplation, she decided to allow him this small liberty, rather than amuse him further by asking him to remove his hand.
And that was certainly the only reason she allowed it.
* * * *
"Oh, I can't believe it! What will I tell Mr. Newman?” Rosalyn wailed, flinging first the basket, then herself onto the carriage seat.
Christian was astounded. Tears shimmered in her big brown eyes—genuine tears for someone he suspected she didn't even know! After finding the address, Rosalyn had gone inside with the basket, only to return scant seconds later, near tears, her mouth trembling like a child on the verge of an all-out tantrum.
"What happened?” he finally managed to ask. She folded her arms over
her chest and fought for composure. Christian feared she wouldn't win. And curiously, he felt sorry for her.
"That—that snotty woman turned her nose up at the basket, that's what happened!” She swiped at a big tear drop on her cheek and Christian handed her his handkerchief, watching in continued amazement as another swiftly followed. Soon, they'd be swimming in tears by the looks of it.
"Come now, it can't be that bad. It's not your fault."
She turned on him, eyes blazing through a wall of moisture. “Yes, it is. I'm the one who persuaded him to buy the basket, believing Miss—Miss Snot-nose would be impressed enough to choose Mr. Newman instead of that—that upstart professor. So you see, it is my fault."
Christian shook his head. He didn't have the slightest idea what she meant, but he didn't think now was a good time to ask. “No, it's not your fault. How could you have known she wouldn't like the basket?"
"But she did like the basket,” she cried.
Frowning, Christian tried to make sense of her words. “If she liked the basket ... then why did she refuse it?"
Rosalyn sniffed, wiping ineffectively at the steady flow of tears. She hiccupped, and the pitiful sound awakened protective feelings inside Christian he didn't know existed. He wanted to pay Miss Snot-nose a visit and shake the life out of her for upsetting Rosalyn. Hell, she was only trying to bring the two sweethearts together—
"She—she said a man fool enough to pay thirty dollars for a basket wouldn't suit her for a husband!"
He shifted on the seat, scrambling for something to say that would calm her. This was definitely a first. “Why didn't you tell her you made a mistake? That the basket didn't cost thirty dollars, but much less."
She stilled, gaping at him. “You mean, why didn't I lie?"
For some absurd reason, Christian wanted to take the words back. It was the way she looked at him, as if he'd just announced he swindled an old widow out of her money. On the tail of this thought came another—a brilliant idea to solve the problem. Pulling his purse from his coat pocket, he counted out twenty-dollars and pressed it into her hand. When she simply stared at it, he couldn't resist a smile.
My Valentine Page 7